


Learning to Fly

by BourbonNeat



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode: s07e05 Top Gear (UK), Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 08:18:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2574569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BourbonNeat/pseuds/BourbonNeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the finish of Top Gear's epic Bugatti Veyron vs. Cessna race, Jeremy is left confronting unexpectedly intense feelings...and he quite liked the car too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning to Fly

**Author's Note:**

> This fic comes, in part, from a [drabble](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1549559/chapters/3282842) I wrote during the TGS Spring Challenge, in part from a scene I had in mind for a longer fic that just never quite fit, and in large part because BBCA seems to love this episode as much as I do.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is fiction. It never happened and is not meant to imply anything about the people featured in the story. Complete unreality from a fanciful mind.

“…marvelous. Pasta with my truffle…”

Clearly, sitting down had been James’ first mistake. The lounge chairs in the NatWest Tower were a concession to style, rather than comfort. Their contours were too sculpted to relax into properly, and the trendy upholstery had far too little padding to provide a decent cushion, but far too much to provide firm support. Yet, somehow, sinking into one felt like absolute bliss, and the more deeply he settled into the chair, the more difficulty he had following the conversation as Jeremy’s and Richard’s excited voices rumbled warmly around him.

“…quite a hollow victory…”

With a barely perceptible jerk of his head, James tried to force the fog from his mind. Drinking the beer Jeremy handed him when they sat down had been his second mistake. It was only weak lager, another nod to fashion over usefulness as far as he was concerned, and nothing so strong as the dark bitter he preferred. But tonight it warmed his insides and relaxed his body with the immediacy and insistence of whisky, and suddenly his eyelids felt quite...

“…go for the rest of my life knowing that I’ll never…”

James raised his head from where it had started to droop against his shoulder again, trying to refocus his attention on the conversation around him. However, in this mood, the familiar voices of his mates mellowed, growing oddly soothing, the meaning of their discussion no longer discernable nor important as the sounds blended into something more musical than speech. If he really concentrated on their faces, carefully studied the shapes their mouths were making, then he could just barely…

…pick out…a few…

…actual…words.

“…again. And that is a really sad...”

Focus. He only had to finish filming this one final scene and then he could…

“…end of an era in an odd…”

Sleep.

  

*** * * * ***

 

Usually Jeremy would have come down from his adrenaline high by now – long before actually – but an entire day behind the wheel of the Bugatti Veyron had managed to push every single one of his buttons. He was still flushed with excitement and barely able to sit still in his chair as he extoled the many virtues of the extraordinary car. But, even in the middle of his excitement, Jeremy’s attention kept drifting back to the spaniel struggling not to fall asleep in the chair across from him. The sight of his clearly exhausted colleague filled him with the usual desire to take the piss, to play up a relationship the press gleefully described as toxic. But also with something else. Protective. Terribly fond. And something…something a lot more dangerous.

With a barely perceptible jerk of his head, Jeremy forced those thoughts aside and launched into another paean to the Veyron. But as those sleepy blue eyes lost their battle to stay open for the last time and the tousled head nodded forward, Jeremy looked at James and thought, maybe…

“…It’s kind of the end of an era in an odd way,” Richard continued, completely unaware that his colleagues were being more than the usual sort of idiot. “The beginning of something new, but…”

Seizing the opportunity for distraction, Jeremy cut him off by pointing to James, a mischievous smile playing at his lips. Richard’s eyes grew comically large as he took in his co-presenter’s sleeping form. Hunching his shoulders with barely suppressed glee, the younger man pointed at James and began to mime increasingly ridiculous things, as Jeremy doubled over in his chair, body shaking with silent laughter. They did both try to resume their dissection of the race several times, but it was no use – every time their eyes met, or fell on James, they collapsed with laughter all over again.

Despite their increasingly loud antics, James slumbered on, looking peaceful and endearing and – ridiculous. Yes, that was a better word. Ridiculous and on the verge of committing an inexcusable act of beer abuse. Shaking his head with fond exasperation, Jeremy leaned forward to rescue the pint glass that threatened to slip from James’ relaxing fingers, smiling as his arm bumped Richard’s hand attempting to do the same thing, but with less effective reach. Clearly, once engrained, the daddy instinct for averting messes never quite left. Grey-blue eyes met brown and the barely stifled sniggers began again, threatening to burst into all out guffaws at the slightest additional provocation.

Andy’s quietly authoritative voice rang out before the glass had even touched the table. “Oh, enough with the two stooges routine already. Come on, Nigel, cut the filming and let’s call it a good day’s work. We aren’t going to get anything more out of them three tonight.” Followed by Nigel’s amused sounding, “Cut!”

Richard sagged back into his seat like someone had cut the strings on a marionette, not yet ready to pass out like their colleague, but clearly longing for his bed. Jeremy, still far more keyed up than usual, jumped when a hand landed on his shoulder. He looked up to find Ben Collins, clad in perfectly innocuous civilian gear and laughing at him.

“What, are you James Bond now as well?” Jeremy chided, taking in the logo on the slightly oversized ball cap the man tended to hide under in situations where a balaclava would draw too much attention.

Ben shrugged. “Probably just some baddy’s sidekick, but one never knows. Anyway. Come on, Clarkson, hand ‘em over. I know the car’s amazing, but you'll have to surrender the keys some time.”

Jeremy started to protest that he'd already given Andy the keys – Or had it been Iain? – but when he stood up, he could feel the tell-tale weight still in his pocket. This was turning into a strange night. Sheepishly, and with a surprisingly genuine reluctance, he produced the keys and handed them to the eager young driver. _Oh well,_ he thought, _just the latest on a long list of extraordinary things that life has given me to borrow_.

Christ that was maudlin. Bad enough that his brain had already spent the last half hour trying to pry open doors he had resolutely closed some time ago. Now it had resorted to assaulting him with the sort of moody, morose, woe-is-me bollocks he usually only indulged in on camera – when it was funny. This was becoming a bad habit.

Trying to shake off the odd mood, Jeremy forced himself to respond with a reasonable approximation of his usual warmth. “You’re going to _love_ this.”

“Fair trade?” Ben suggested with a teasing smirk, as he took the keys from Jeremy and handed him the keys to his own Mercedes.

Richard observed the exchange with a raised eyebrow.

Jeremy coughed and sputtered in mock outrage. “Criminal, more like. And that’s actually an understatement. You’ll understand in a few minutes, see if you don’t. This magnificent machine will ruin you for all other cars–”

“Oh bloody hell, not the return of lovesick, teenage Jezza!” Andy interrupted cheerfully, clapping his oldest friend on the back. “Because, I have to tell you, I barely survived listening to all your sighing and your whinging the first time around, mate.”

“Go ahead, Andy, take the piss,” Jeremy sniffed with mock dignity, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders relax with the familiarity of easy banter. “You have all the romance of boiled turnip. Our affair may have been brief, but I feel as though the Veyron and I loved a lifetime today.”

“Right. Well, then,” Andy said, gathering the napkins from the table with one swipe of his hand and handing them to Ben. “Apparently you’ll be wanting to wipe down the interior before you set off, then.”

“Oh god,” Ben and Richard cringed at more or less the same time, and Jeremy promptly doubled over with laughter, leaning on an equally amused Andy for support.

“What, is Ben your personal driver now?” Richard asked, once the laughter had died down and his Stigliness had sauntered off with the prized key.

“Eh, some say the arrangement was mutually beneficial,” he laughed. “Besides, he gets to drive the Veyron for three days. Bastard should be feeling generous.”

“Good,” Andy said in that slightly distracted voice that generally meant he was mentally reviewing long lists of things that still needed doing. “Richard, you’ve got a ride?” He nodded. “Wonderful, I'll just sort something out for sleeping beauty here, and you can all go home. Good work today.”

Without giving himself time to think about it, Jeremy grabbed Andy’s arm as he started to walk away. “Um, sorted. I'll give him a ride.” He couldn’t understand why he _needed_ to make sure that the sleepy bugger got home and comfortably to bed – worrying about James was not his job, never had been really – but right now he did.

“Great,” said Andy, pleased that something had delegated itself while he wasn’t looking. “Take care of him, Jez,” he added with a teasing grin in Richard’s direction. “He’s had a traumatic day.”

“Oh _he’s_ had a traumatic day?” Richard moaned loudly at the departing producer’s back.

“You know, Jeremy,” he offered after he’d finally ceased grumbling about pre-flight checks, and license restrictions, and pedantic spaniels who thought they were so damned funny with their never ending string of ‘Hammond, I didn’t tell you this, but’s. “I’m grabbing a ride to my car with Kiff. One of us could take James, if you’d prefer? Is a bit out of your way.”

Jeremy’s face broadened into a knowing smirk. “But Hammond, not one hour ago you looked like you couldn’t move your chair far enough away from the man.” In fact, gleeful anecdotes from the camera crew suggested that he’d spent most of the day on the verge of strangling James.

Richard just shrugged. “Yeah, well, that was an hour ago.”

The smirk softened with affection. “Thanks, Richard, but I’ll let you get back to your yogurt commercial. You’ve got a long drive, and Mindy and the girls eager for you to be home.”

“Right, but…”

“Remember, I’m a local boy now. Besides,” he added with self-deprecating grin, “I’ve had no one at home for quite some time. And no one eager for good while before that.”

Richard’s lips tightened into a pained expression.

“It isn’t a terminal _disease_ , Hammond. May’s managed for even longer than I have, and he’s just fine.”

“Right.” Richard made a scoffing noise. “I’ll refrain from mentioning that you’ve just said something nice about James’ personal life. But it _will_ cost you.”

His tone was light as they continued to joke and tease, but Richard looked as if he wanted to say something more – or perhaps was waiting for him to say something more – and when he gripped Jeremy’s shoulder in parting, he held it a bit longer and tighter than he usually would. “All right then, I’m off. I’ll see you at the track next week.”

Jeremy said his goodbyes and turned his attentions to James, who had only curled over further onto his side in the chair, well beyond a quick kip by this point.

He shook his friend gently, one hand on his shoulder. “Come on. Wake up, Spaniel.”

The sleeper stirred and appeared to contemplate waking, blue eyes opening briefly to half-mast, before slipping closed again. “May, you lazy sod,” Jeremy muttered. Oh well, time to break out the heavy ammunition.

“James. James! Jaaaaaaaames.”

That finally worked. For some reason, calculated whining always had. James rolled upright in his chair with a deep stretch of his arms, eyes blinking tiredly at Jeremy. Then he smiled, slow and lazy, as the world slowly come into focus, and Jeremy had to fight the sudden and completely unreasonable urge to ruffle James’ hair and brush the floppy fringe back from his eyes. A strange night indeed.

"Come on. Up, Slow. I'm taking you home,” Jeremy said, giving his friend’s shoulder a final squeeze instead.

 

*** * * * ***

 

“Careful, James. You don’t have clearance to go flying in the dark.”

He had been doing his best to ignore the hovering arm that Jeremy hadn’t quite dared to throw across his shoulders or around his waist. Now that it was the only thing that had kept him from landing on his arse, James gave up being stubborn and leaned against Jeremy’s stable bulk, allowing himself to be led to the car. It was clear that the ability to put one foot in front of the other without incident was asking a bit much of his coordination at the moment.

By now he had reached that state of tired where, in addition to clumsy feet, his body felt chilled and achy. Almost unconsciously, he pressed even closer to the taller man’s side. He’d forgotten just how warm Jeremy always felt. _Clearly shouting and bluster are some sort of exothermic reaction._ The thought actually made James giggle and attempting to stifle the sound only made it worse.

“So how _did_ the world’s least patient Hamster take the news when you broke it to him?” Jeremy asked, misunderstanding the source of the amusement.

James groaned. “Surprising Richard with all of my limitations today might not have been my brightest idea, if I’m honest. Forgot how many hours I’d be spending airborne with him in a small space after that.” But his voice was tinged with affection.

Jeremy burst out laughing so uncontrollably that all attempts at walking temporarily ceased. The fact that James’ stomach invariably flipped a little at the sound had stopped taking him by surprise quite some time ago. He barely noticed it now. More or less.

Somewhere in the middle of the largely unintelligible sounds of mirth, James could just discern a question about the usability of the footage.

“Yes, yes. It’s all very funny, Clarkson.” But he was smiling as he gave the oaf a shove to get them moving again. “The footage is all far too usable. I can practically hear Wilman cackling with joy. So much film of Richard being a bit of shit and me being more than a bit rubbish, however will he choose?”

“So, clearly you’ll be up for more plane races then? I’ve got ideas, James. Many, many brilliant ideas. We could film at least one per series.”

“Right. Only if I get to lock you in one of the Beeb's lifts with Hammond for six hours or so first. And not one of the larger ones either, that small service lift by the restaurant.”

He could feel Jeremy’s exaggerated shudder where their sides pressed together and started to chuckle all over again, feeling almost drunk now with the combination of laughter and fatigue.

“Well,” Jeremy ventured once he’d regained some of his composure. “I could go up with you instead.”

“Oh god,” James groaned again. “You’d be even worse.”

“Oh thank you very much.”

“But you would, you know. Riding in a small plane actually _is_ rather boring. It’s flying the plane that’s brilliant. Gives me the fizz like–”

He cut himself off with another stumble, useless feet nearly sliding out from under him again. Jeremy’s arm, steady and warm, tightened around his waist. Something about the order of those statements bothered James. But when he wasn’t actively talking, his mind was such a tired jumble that his perceptions were no doubt as unreliable as his limbs.

 

*** * * * ***

 

By the time Jeremy finished fiddling with his mirrors and adjusting the Merc’s seat back to its proper position – ah, the perils of allowing some short arse, read anyone else, to drive his car – he was amused to find that James was already half asleep again, curling over on his right side against the passenger seat, head and arms burrowing into the upholstery for comfort.

“Bloody hell, James,” he laughed. “Is flying a washing machine really that exhausting?”

The sound James made began life as a sarcastic laugh, but it quickly tapered off into more of a barely suppressed yawn.

“Well, I _am_ still fairly new at this, Jezza, and today was all new. New plane. New flight path. An audience…cameras.” His voice started to drift in and out in a sleepy haze, punctuated by the occasional, increasingly less suppressed, yawn. “Lots to remember…Checks…Gages…Permissions. S’beautiful up there though. Mountains…Blue sky…” He trailed off with a dreamy little smile, eyes crinkling shut.

 _And you let us put the OCD you'll never admit to having on display_ , Jeremy thought, looking at his drowsy co-presenter, that same wave of unexpected feeling from earlier bubbling up again, at once pleasant and unwanted. _You let us put you solidly in the spotlight, which you hate, during a day when there’s bound to be conflict, which you hate even more, and all because you love machines and fiddly things and all of the daft things we get up to._ Not that Jeremy would ever say any of that out loud, even to a sleeping James. Then again, the words that actually did escape his mouth were nearly as soppy, for all that they slipped out quietly.

“You know, at times you’re rather brilliant.”

He nearly jumped when he heard the soft laughter. “That sounded suspiciously like a compliment,” James responded in a low voice, without bothering to open his eyes.

“Bollocks, May,” he scoffed. “You’re asleep and dreaming, man. I doubt you’ll even remember this conversation in the morning.”

James looked up at him with the same lazy smile from earlier, and this time Jeremy was unable to resist the temptation, reaching over to smooth errant strands of dark hair from his eyes, before his brain could engage sufficiently to prevent his hand from moving. James’ expression briefly turned puzzled, before relaxing back into that contented little smile and, for one moment, it almost seemed as if he leaned into the touch. But then James was settling down further against the seat, and Jeremy’s body finally released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and he just couldn’t be certain.

The drive to Hammersmith was uneventful, save for the occasional snore from the passenger seat. It was perfect for thinking, really, assuming of course that thinking was a desirable occupation. But Jeremy wasn’t even certain he dared wrap his brain around _that_ question.

 

*** * * * ***

 

Despite the fact that he hadn’t used it in months – longer, if he was honest – the key remained on Jeremy’s regular keychain, cozily sandwiched between the key for the Portakabin at Dunsfold and the one for his own flat. But it was only as he opened James’ door, automatically applying just the right extra push of shoulder at the point where it tended to stick, that he realized it had been even longer since he'd been here without Richard's teasing, boisterous presence as a buffer. Fuck but he needed to stop hiding, and hiding was the right word for it. That had never been his intention.

James brought Jeremy back to the present, shaking off his arm and then swaying once, alarmingly, before steadying himself against the banister. “Thank you for the ride, Jez,” He managed before his next word were garbled by a deep yawn that stretched his mouth wide, highlighting the fading imprint of a Mercedes upholstery seam on his right cheek. “…staying? …make up the guest room if you like?”

Jeremy couldn’t help but laugh. “I doubt you could make it up the stairs right now, Slow, let alone the guest bed. Thank you, but I’ll be on my way once I’ve got you settled.”

Attempting to respond, in between several more yawns, James produced a few discernable words that sounded very much like, ‘thank you’ and ‘can handle it myself from here.’

“Right. Go flying off the stairs more like.”

James’ lack of any further argument was, perhaps, even more telling than falling asleep on camera. Jeremy led him up the stairs, one arm protectively around his shoulders, with James’ arm reaching back around his waist, not unlike countless times before, wandering back from the pub, both drunk and swaying, or… The sixth step creaked and groaned with their passing, sparing Jeremy further thought and making him chuckle. All this time and James still hadn't made the long-threatened repairs. _How many times had it squeaked and complained as they’d stumbled up these stairs? Half hard and clinging to one another, leaving a trail of..._ He stamped down on that train of thought as quickly as it appeared, filing it away with so many others from this evening, in his newly bulging ‘we’re not going to think about this right now’ folder.

James’ bedroom always struck Jeremy as comfortably functional – white walls, dark woods and not one more piece of furniture than was strictly necessary. But the overall impression of tidy practicality was softened and made James by the surprisingly bright pattern of the duvet, as daftly cheerful as one of the man’s god-awful shirts, and the precarious stack of books that forever threatened to topple from his nightstand. The realization that he felt as much at home in this room as he did in any of the places that they all gathered and laughed and drank together downstairs, hit Jeremy like a sudden blast of cold water – shocking almost to the point of painful, but eye-opening. And god but he really needed to stop thinking now.

He clapped James on the shoulder, startling him from a near-doze on his feet. “Wake up, James. I’m not letting you sleep standing up. Get ready for bed so I can leave you to pass out in peace.” Mercifully, the man started to comply without asking why Jeremy was still here.

Trying to speed up the process, he retrieved one of the t-shirts he knew James liked to sleep in, from the drawer by the bed. But when he turned back around, the captain was living up to his name, sleepy fingers fumbling ineffectively at the buttons on his shirt. Jeremy chuckled softly, all frustration washed away by sudden waves of intense fondness.

“C’mere, matey boy, I'll get that. If I wait for you, we'll be here ‘til dawn.”

James just blinked bleary eyes at him, nodded and shuffled forward. It was odd to be undoing the flies on another man’s jeans for strictly platonic purposes, Jeremy reflected, untucking the cream colored shirt and starting on the buttons, but he could manage. Would have managed just fine, in fact, if his fingers hadn’t recognized the feel of the material, hadn’t noticed the one button near the bottom that almost matched the others.

It was funny how the memory worked sometimes. Jeremy couldn’t recall the name of the hotel, but he remembered the distinctive plink that first button made when it hit the wood of the hotel room flooring, followed rapidly by the other two. They’d both paused, surprised, and followed the runaway buttons with their eyes as they continued to bounce across the floor – a second time, a third – before skittering under the bureau.

They had turned back to look at each other, then, and laughed, poorly stifled sniggers that built and built until they boiled over into deep belly laughs at the ridiculousness of it all. Loud-mouthed Clarkson and Captain Slow, tearing one another’s clothes off the second the hotel room door slammed shut, like the middle aged stars of some low budget porno, rushing toward the climax. James had laughed, that infectious half honk, half bray of his, until his eyes watered and no more sound came out, and Jeremy was little better.

They’d collapsed together on the bed in a heap, breathless and smiling. And then a kiss, a caress, a bit of residual laughter catching back up with them. Another kiss and another, more caresses, one last fit of mirth evolving into a moan as an eager hand found its way into a pair of jeans. When they’d fucked that night – slow and lingering, then hard and fast, and not quite back again – it had honestly felt like…

And, fuck, he needed to stop now. This was a bad idea.

James was so close, eyes closed and lips quirked in a sleepy little smile. His skin was warm and inviting against Jeremy’s hand where it had paused, lightly griping one nearly bare hip. If the impetus for tonight’s fit of protectiveness was strictly rooted in friendship, if his intention was truly to keep their relationship one of best mates, then he should step away now and back down the stairs. Would be stepping away now. If.

Blue eyes fluttered open, confused, then slowly coming into focus. Before Jeremy could think of anything to say, James closed the gap, kissing him with an easy, lingering press of lips that spoke more of those tender moments after, than of growing hunger. Resolve crumbling in an instant under the spell of familiar sensations, lazy and sweet, Jeremy responded, slowly at first, aching with longing, then with greater intensity.

Someone groaned, low and deep, and Jeremy realized that it was him. He pulled James closer, tangling one hand in the soft, messy waves of his hair, so much longer than last time he’d touched it. His other teased at James’ hip, before gripping him tighter, desperate for more contact. He reveled in the strength of the hands running over his back, in the heat of the body pressed tightly against his, tantalizing and real through the thin cotton of his shirt.

Then James was pulling away, ending the kiss as abruptly as he’d began it, eyes wide awake now and distressed. Jeremy whimpered in complaint, reaching out to pull him back into his arms, but James backed two more steps away and Jeremy’s hands flopped uselessly down to his sides.

“Fuck. Jeremy, I’m sorry,” he stammered, bowing his head so that the fringe fell over his face, hiding his eyes, but not his flaming cheeks. “I know this isn't – not what you want, not anymore and I’m so…” His voice trailed off as he shook his head and mouthed the word fuck with conviction.

Jeremy tried to speak and found that words completely escaped him, his mouth opening and closing with all of the helpful communication skills of a goldfish.

“Don't,” James said softly, looking up. “You don't have to say anything. Please.” He did his own brief impression of a goldfish before continuing all in a rush, and still Jeremy couldn’t make his own mouth form words. “Thank you for – tell you what, I'm going to take a long shower. And then sleep for about two days. I’ll see you at the track, all right?” His lopsided smile was heartbreaking.

Jeremy stood, rooted to the spot as the bathroom door swung shut with a solid sounding thud against the frame, protecting a retreating James. Fuck. Yeah, that about covered it. His heart sank – until a few moments ago, Jeremy had always considered that an especially literary bit of hyperbole, but under his present circumstances the phrase seemed unfortunately apt. Christ, he really needed to be home right now, back at the flat, where he could pull all of his swirling thoughts out one by one, and sort them into some semblance of sense under the guise of writing a column. That or hush them all into oblivion under the guise of a nightcap. Or three. Instead he sank down onto the bed, suddenly weary to the point of a physical ache, and attempted to sort through his jumbled thoughts there.

Eventually a noise, or rather its lack, cut through his reverie. A shower makes a distinctive sound while the water cascades over a body going through the various motions of washing, a concept Jeremy had never really contemplated until it occurred to him that the water still running in the shower hadn’t made that sound for several minutes now. _Oh, James. Really?_

 

*** * * * ***

 

_Oh cocking hell. Idiot, May!_

James shook his head. The hot water pelting his shoulders and back did wonders alleviating the aches and pains that the day’s travel had inflicted on his body, and absolutely nothing for the worry and embarrassment he’d managed to inflict on his own mind within the last five minutes. _You utter, utter fool._ He took one final rough swipe at his chest with the flannel before flinging it aside in frustration _._

It wasn’t as if he’d intended – it had been nearly a year for fuck’s sake. But the sensation of those warm, familiar hands undressing him, of Jeremy so close that James could feel the heat baking off of the man, breathe in his scent… He sagged against the cubicle wall, thumping his head against the still cold tiles once, twice, a third time. He’d been so out of it, falling asleep on his feet. _Sorry about that, Jezza. I went a bit mental there for a moment and forgot where we were._ When _we were._ Right. Because that certainly sounded plausible. _Bugger_. He thumped his head against the wall a fourth time.

By the time the steam from the water had noticeably warmed the chilly porcelain tiles, James had finally stopped berating himself. Mostly. Fortunately, he really did have two days to sleep, and another day after that before he had to face Jeremy again. That, and Clarkson would never make him sit down and talk about this. Probably. At least, they had never talked about it before.

God but this heat was lovely, relaxing him far more than he would have thought possible under the circumstances. If only it could ease away the lingering feeling of those hands pulling him closer, of those lips devouring him, as simply. With a sigh, he leaned more heavily against the tiles and reminded himself sternly of all the words that he and Jeremy had never said to one another, and of the words they finally did. The tiles were quite warm now and the rhythm of the water against his skin was soothing. Slowly his eyes slid shut.

The next thing he knew, one of those hands was gripping his shoulder again, but only to shake him gently.

“Jaaaaaames. James. Come on, Slow, wake up.”

James, who had yet to find a way to ignore that voice when it elongated his name into that many vowels, complied, turning with the insistent tug of the hand on his shoulder. It took his sleep-addled brain a few seconds to process the fact that Jeremy was leaning through his now open shower door, his expression the strangest combination of concern and annoyance. The realization that this was both unusual and more than a bit awkward came skulking along shortly after.

“Jezza, I– ”

“Fell asleep in the shower is what you did,” he laughed, pulling back away from the spray. “How is that even possible?”

James opened his mouth again to protest, to snark back, to ask Jeremy to leave the bathroom, something. But Jeremy would have none of it.

“No. You’re done. Rinse off and come out of there before you fall asleep again.” His smile slid from mostly exasperated to more than a little bit evil. “That is, unless you want me to come in there with you.”

James rolled his eyes. The insufferable git would too.

“No. Thank you very much all the same, but no.”

Well, yes actually – terribly so, now that he mentioned it – and, therefore, absolutely no. James turned back into the spray, missing the warmth and calm already, and reached out to turn off the taps. Brushing the water from his face as he reached for the towel, he was surprised to find Jeremy already handing it to him. Even more surprised when, instead of leaving the room like a sensible person, the man leaned his long body against the wall with a creak and a sigh, casually crossing his arms over his chest as if he had every intention of staying.

“Are you just going to stand there watching me, then?” James sputtered, thoroughly bemused.

“I already left you alone for ten minutes, James, and you nearly drowned yourself to death,” Jeremy said with exaggerated patience, as if his answer was perfectly obvious and explained everything.

Right. It never ceased to amaze him how incredibly adept Clarkson logic was at removing all traces of awkwardness from a situation…for Clarkson. But arguing was only going to prolong things and at least he felt less exposed, now that he had something to do with his hands. James toweled himself off as swiftly as his still sluggish fingers would allow and stepped out of the shower, reaching for the comfort of the stripped dressing gown that hung on the back of the door.

“Thank you again for bringing me home, Jez,” he started, half distracted fumbling with ties which seemed extra thick and unmanageable in his usually sure hands. “But unless you’ve changed your mind about the guest room, I think…” only to trail off in confusion when he nearly ran into the man, now standing in the middle of the room.

Jeremy finally had the good grace to look awkward, opening his mouth to speak and then closing it again. James took a step back, his expression questioning. Jeremy started to reach for him and then appeared to think better of it, his hand falling back down to his side, fingers flexing nervously and then growing still.

“James, I think we need to–”

James’ shoulders sagged. His mind was wide awake now, and none too happy about it, but his body had never felt more exhausted, his fatigue from the race now seeming innocuous in comparison. “Jeremy,” he groaned, cutting him off with a wave of his hand. “If we have to talk about this, can it please be some other time?” He pinched the bridge of his nose wearily. “I _am_ sorry. I never should have–”

“Stop apologizing, James,” Jeremy snapped in frustration. He rubbed one large hand over his face tiredly, pulling at the deep lines around his jaw, before continuing in a much warmer voice. “In case you were too asleep – or too slow – to notice, I kissed you back. I think – I know that I want very much to kiss you again. I’ve never said–”

“I remember what you said,” James interrupted, voice gentle but firm, “and we really don’t need to–”

“No, we do,” and Jeremy's voice was just as firm, but more agitated. “I don’t think you heard me.” He waved one hand indicating the past. “I think you were too busy paying attention that that voice in your head I would love to find and throttle, because I never said I didn’t want you. Not once.”

Unconsciously, James crossed his arms over his chest and lowered his head, eyes concentrating on a fixed point in the middle of Jeremy’s chest. The water droplets on his shirt had coalesced into large damp patches wherever they touched warm skin.

“Never in those words, Jezza, but–”

“I said that quick shags in hotel rooms and fumbles behind the Portakabin weren’t worth the risk.”

“Yes, of course. Very sensible, you.” James couldn’t help but laugh a little at that, but the sound was pained, more so than he’d intended to share. “And now what? You’ve decided that you were wrong? Just like that?”

Jeremy’s laugh was more of a surprised bark. “‘Course not, May. I am _never_ wrong. You should know that by now.”

The comforting words of the familiar joke relaxed the tension between them sufficiently to coax hesitant smiles from both men. James’ arms remained crossed, the fingers of one hand picking restlessly at the worn material of his sleeve, but he looked up to meet Jeremy’s eyes at last. The taller man sagged in relief.

“I had you and I packed away in a safe little box, James. But lately it refuses to stay there. I thought that I was just lonely, or starting to go insane. But then, tonight, when you – that was the first time I’ve felt right in, god, it feels like in forever, James. And I can’t help but think that maybe – maybe we were never just…” he trailed off, his usual boisterous certainty running out long before the words he needed to finish the thought.

James’ eyes went wide. “We’ve never been anything you could preface with ‘just’, Jeremy,” he said with calm assurance. “And if you don’t know that, then you weren’t paying attention.”

Jeremy nodded thoughtfully, assessing. He looked back up, grey-blue eyes filled with something raw and hopeful. “I’m paying attention now.”

James closed his eyes briefly, savoring the words, and nodded slowly. His heart leapt at the honest feeling in the warm bass tones of that much loved voice, but he hesitated. Privacy, reputation, potentially even their ability to continue working, and still, somehow, this right here felt like the biggest risk.

Jeremy smiled and it was almost shy, a rare glimpse of the vulnerability underneath. A mutual risk then, and one worth taking. James took two steps forward, closing the distance between them. Long arms pulled him into a secure embrace, held him close, like he was something precious. He heard himself make a happy noise, somewhere between a hum and a sigh. Jeremy echoed the sound and held him tighter, lips pressing a deep kiss onto the top of his head and lingering, warm huffs of breath ruffling his unruly hair.

They stayed like that for some time, just holding each other close and being held, neither willing to move. Inevitably, James broke the spell with a yawn, making them both laugh.

“Come on, Slow,” Jeremy said with obvious reluctance. “It’s past your bedtime.”

But he still hadn’t moved, seemed loathe to let James out of his arms. Perhaps even more unusually, James didn’t feel the slightest urge to pull away.

“Stay?” He asked, voice muffled against Jeremy’s chest. He felt the slow nod of yes against the top of his head, the older man’s end of day stubble pulling lightly at his hair.

“You'd have to throw me out to get me to leave,” Jeremy said finally.

James pulled away slightly and found that he was not, in fact, too tired to manage a cheeky grin. “Going to tuck me in properly?”

Jeremy laughed and shook his head, pulling James back in to kiss his forehead, his cheek, his lips. “Idiot. You were just falling asleep standing up. In the shower. What if I promise you a rousing wake-up call instead?”

 

*** * * * ***

 

Jeremy's decision for sleep first was a considerate one. It was caring and well intentioned. It lasted all of three minutes once they began undressing for bed – rather long-lived as such things tended to go between them, really.

 

*** * * * ***

 

Jeremy was paying attention now. To the man practically in his lap, on his knees straddling his thighs, shameless and sweet. To the feel of smooth skin, of muscles shivering as his hands roamed down over a strong back to cup James’ perfect bottom and squeeze. Paid attention to James, just James, who knew him as well as anyone, down to his thorniest and more bastardly of bits, and still kissed him with that much feeling, mouth tender but quickly growing heated. He’d needed this for so long, been miserable for its lack for months and never let himself put a name to why.

“Missed you, Slow,” he tried, voice thick and crackly and unreliable. “Terribly. It's been – I've been...”

“It’s all right,” James said, when his mouth wouldn’t form the words. “I know.” And this time he probably did.

James nuzzled his face against Jeremy’s chest and breathed in. Skin. So much soft, bare skin. Warm and sensual under his hands, salty and perfect on his tongue. He buried one hand in Jeremy’s greying curls, tugging his head back to kiss the long line of exposed throat, bite at the soft underside of his jaw. James relished the rasp of stubble under his lips, his tongue. He felt Jeremy’s moans as much as heard them, a deep, warm rumble through his chest. He nibbled and sucked at the man’s throat where it trembled with the vibrations of growling his name.

Jeremy fell back against the pillows with a whine, pulling James down on top of him, craving more of those lips on his. Hints of beer, tobacco, and underneath it all that taste he could never quite describe, a taste that was just James. Greedy for more, he rolled them over and deepened the kiss, swallowing his lover’s groans as he sucked on his lower lip and licked into his mouth. When Jeremy abandoned those lips, it was for the taste of more skin, a lingering exploration of James’ body, re-mapping every sensitive, gasp-inducing place with hands and teeth and tongue. He laughed, low and lusty, reveling in the feel of strong limbs and a soft belly moving beneath him, of the musical sighs and whimpers he could wring from James, while nails raked down his back, the sensation on the exquisite edge of painful.

James writhed and moaned as Jeremy’s hands – heavy, rough, perfect – caressed and teased, remembering how to undo him effortlessly. Thick, eager fingers, slippery with lube, stretched him open slowly, lovingly, pressing in so deep that James felt like he might shake apart from the pleasure. He could hear the noises emerging from his own mouth, wanton now, shameless. Looked up to catch those beautiful eyes gazing down at him and Jeremy’s expression was such a mix of typical smugness and unexpected emotion that it was all James could do not to come then and there.

Desperate now and wanting, Jeremy pushed into gorgeous heat, James’ body slick and tight. He moved, a rhythm, deep and slow. They moved, undoing each other a little more with every roll of his hips, still more with every answering clench. And, “Oh!” And, “Please.” And, “Oh. God. Jer-e-my!” His name drawn out, each syllable ragged, utterly wrecked, the word punctuated with a moan. Yes, yes, _that_ – what he wanted to give, what he wanted to have.

 

* * * * *

 

Sleep would be a long while coming tonight, as Jeremy could tell from all too many years of undesired practice. But, for once, it was happiness that kept his eyes from slipping closed, so, for once, he didn’t actually mind all that much.

He should probably leave the bed soon and fetch a flannel to finish cleaning them up. James was dead to the world at this point and unlikely to be disturbed even by an F1 race queueing up in the street below his window or a rock concert sound check out in the hall. Certainly Jeremy would be able to come and go without waking him.

He really _should_ leave the bed. But lying on his back, with the remnants of orgasm still fizzing around the edges of his brain, and a sleeping James half draped over him like a blanket, he really didn’t want to. James’ head rested against his shoulder, one arm flung across his chest, body pressed in close and warm along his side. Jeremy had shared many different beds with the man over the years, enough to know that this did not happen very often.

Well, it hadn’t happened very often in the past, at least. He had a sense that, in the future, a lot of things might be different and in the best of all possible ways.

A future. Their future. Provided he didn’t fuck this up again, of course.

Jeremy stroked one hand through the long messy waves of hair, enjoying the feel of each sleepy breath against his chest, of the heart beating slowly and steadily against his side. He thought of all the extraordinary things that life had given him to borrow. And he thought of this, the most extraordinary thing of all, and smiled, knowing _this_ was his to keep.

 

 

 

 


End file.
